


this heart within me burns

by fletcherstringham



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe – College/University, Alternate Universe – Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, FMA Rarepair Week, Fluff and Smut, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Trans Male Character, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletcherstringham/pseuds/fletcherstringham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t his ulterior motive—really, Ed just wanted to piss his roommate off, nothing else. He’d only called Russell to begin with for some innocent homework help. Now, however, he’s got the dorm to himself, Russell’s on the phone, and he hasn’t had a good fuck in two weeks. He’s just making lemons into lemonade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this heart within me burns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FMA Rarepair Week 2016! Prompt was ‘high school/university AU’. Thanks a million to [En](http://avaritiabonaest.tumblr.com/) and [Cari](http://cariisms.tumblr.com/) for reading this over. My sincerest apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, my English professor, Kōsuke Okano, and Justin Cook. Feedback is appreciated!

Supposedly, “hate” is a strong word—well, no fucking _duh_ , Ed thinks; that’s why he’s using it. He hates that he’s cooped up in his dorm on a Saturday night, rereading for possibly the _thousandth_ time the same damn poem that still doesn’t make a lick of sense. He hates that his bedroom’s the size of a hall closet and his prosthetic arm and leg start to ache if he’s crammed in there for too long, which makes the living room the only private place he can comfortably study. There, he can’t tell his roommate to piss off, so Ling sprawls out on the sofa across from him and tries to engage him in conversation, or else listens to shitty pop music while he texts his girlfriend, and helps himself to Ed’s chips like he doesn’t have his _own_ damn money to buy his _own_ damn snacks.

Ed hates that his boyfriend lives three hours away: all the texts, Skype calls, and even letters (which are sappy as shit, totally impractical, and _definitely_ not currently located under Ed’s pillow) in the world can’t make up for only getting to see him a few times a month. While he’s at it, Ed hates Russell’s neglectful shitbag father, too, since getting away from him is the main reason Russell went to school so far from home—and he hates that he’s been expressly forbidden (by Russell) from sending Nash Tringham dog shit in the mail or something else equally hilarious and totally deserved. Ed hates missing Russell so badly it _hurts_.

This time of night, Ed hates his binder, too, because it chafes like a _motherfucker_ and while Ling’s really cool about him being trans, Ed’s still not comfortable having it off in front of him. It’s less his chest and more how people _react_ to his chest that makes him dysphoric; it’s hard enough to concentrate on Brit Lit without throwing that in the mix. Ed also hates Brit Lit.

But, most of all, Ed hates Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Seriously. _Fuck_ that guy.

“I don’t get it!” Ed exclaims through a mouthful of Tostitos. “Why does he shoot the fucking bird?”

“That’s not the _point_ , Ed,” Russell tells him.

Ed moves his phone from one ear to the other to hear him better. Ling, thinking he’s slick, takes advantage of Ed’s preoccupation to slide the chip bag closer to his end of the coffee table and get himself a heaping handful. Dick.

“There was literally no reason to shoot the damn bird,” Ed says. “If he _hadn’t_ shot the damn bird, all that shit wouldn’t have happened to him. It’s stupid.”

“That’s true. But the poem’s not about _why_ he shoots the albatross, it’s about all the shit that happens to him _because_ he shoots the albatross,” Russell replies. “It’s about consequence, not cause. People do stupid shit all the time for no good reason, you know? And, of course, it’s also commentary about how little people respect nature. Even now we’re constantly shitting all over the environment for no reason. The Mariner killed the albatross because he didn’t appreciate it.”

In case Ed forgot he’s dating an ecology major: yeah, he’s dating an ecology major. He wishes Russell could see him roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we’re killing the planet, I know. After I finish this I’ll go hug a tree on your behalf. But help me out here, Russell, please. This essay’s kicking my ass.”

“When’s it due?” Russell asks.

Ed bites his lip. “Uh.”

That says it loud and clear: Monday morning, 8:00, on his professor’s desk with no exceptions. Russell sighs.

“Well, how much do you have so far, at least?”

“Does the heading count?” Ed asks.

“Edward!”

Ah, the full name. That means one of two things: either Russell’s upset with him, or they’re fucking. Needless to say, Ed likes one instance a lot more than the other.

“Oh, lay off me, will you?” he says. “Not everyone went to college right away, some of us took a gap year and are still getting used to all this shit. I’m gonna forget once in a while. And, besides, it’s not like I missed the due date altogether, I just—”

“Put it off,” Russell finishes in a flat voice. But, before Ed can rejoin with a more serious _fucking lay off, Tringham_ , Russell sighs again. For a moment, he’s quiet. Then he says, a little more gently, “Okay, you’re right. It’s not my job to get on your case about it. If that’s what works for you, that’s great, really, I just—I don’t want you to be more stressed than you need to be.”

“Have you taken a look at yourself lately?” Ed says, not unkindly. “Double major, internship, total asshole boyfriend—”

“Knock it off, you’re wonderful, Ed.”

And, damn it, they’ve been dating for months, but that still makes him blush. Ed feels himself smile. It must look pretty disgusting, because Ling pulls a face, points to his mouth, and mimes vomiting. Ed flips him off.

“Well, I won’t lie, babe. You’re kind of a mess. But that’s why I love you.”

“And your brutal honesty is precisely why _I_ love _you_ ,” Russell says dryly. “Also: I might be a mess, but at least I’m an _organized_ mess. You know, if you let me, I could help you out there.”

“Oh, God. You’re not gonna suggest I get an agenda and start putting fucking sticky notes everywhere, are you?”

“It wouldn’t kill you!” Russell insists, while Ed snorts through a laugh. “How do you think _I_ do it? Magic?”

“Well, funny thing, until I saw you naked I kind of had a theory you were an android,” Ed says.

From the couch, Ling makes a sound of protest. “Gross, Ed.”

“You look _really good_ naked, by the way,” Ed adds loudly. Ling chucks a throw pillow at him. Ed retaliates by snatching back his bag of chips, only to discover that fucking Ling polished them off. _Dick._

“Is that a real compliment, or are you using me to make your roommate uncomfortable?” Russell asks conversationally.

“Well, it’s not a lie either way, so you’re welcome.” He can almost _hear_ Russell roll his eyes. “Oh, what, like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re buying me more chips, by the way,” Ed tells Ling irritably, which he’s said at least twelve times this semester, and which just makes Ling snort indelicately through his nose. He goes back to texting Lan Fan.

“I retract my previous statement,” Russell says. “You are, in fact, an asshole.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be describing the wonders of wall calendars?” Ed asks.

“You don’t have to go overboard with it, but actually _writing things down_ helps you remember them. Scientifically proven.”

“It’s also scientifically proven that sex helps relieve stress,” Ed says. “I’m just sayin’.”

Ling makes a sound of disgust. “Go in your room if you’re going to have phone sex with your boyfriend,” he says, like he hasn’t flaunted every boyfriend and girlfriend he’s had since August in Ed’s face. At least Ed’s never fucked Russell with Ling in their dorm—though not for lack of trying.

At the same time, Russell says, “Oh, give the guy a break, Ed. Seriously.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Keep going. Something about writing things down.” Then, because Ling looks too comfortable, he adds, “ _Nothing_ gets me wet like you talking about spiral planners and multicolored highlighters—”

That does the trick: Ling gets up on _you_. “I’m going out,” he announces, and disappears into his room for a minute to get his boots and a mustard yellow hoodie that actually hurts Ed’s eyes. He pulls it over his head as he crosses the room, then turns back at the door. “Don’t wait up. Enjoy yourself, just not anywhere I might sit.”

“We’ll see,” Ed says smugly.

Ling gives him the finger and shuts the door behind him with a sharp _snap_.

“You’re not an asshole,” Russell says, between fits of snickers. “You’re _the_ asshole. You’re the _king_ of assholes. Jesus, Ed, that was awful.”

“What?” Ed says innocently. He stands, stretches, and circles the coffee table to flop back down where Ling was just a minute ago. “It’s not my fault your voice turns me on.”

“Of _course_ not,” Russell says, his tone suddenly lower, darker. The sound trickles down Ed’s spine like warm water—he even shivers a little—and settles pleasantly in the pit of his belly. “It’s the cross you have to bear, Edward.” Then he gives a tiny gasp. “It’s the _albatross around your neck_ ,” he amends, and Ed can just _imagine_ the biggest, fucking dorkiest grin on his face.

He groans, loudly. “Thanks, babe. I almost forgot I’m in love with a nerd.”

(That’s its own little thrill, if he’s honest: constant, casual reminders that he loves Russell, that he’s _in love_ with Russell, that he’s fucking _head-over-heels_ for this kid. If “hate” is a strong word, so’s “love”—and that’s why he’s using it.)

“If _I’m_ a nerd, I don’t want to _know_ what that makes you,” Russell quips.

“It makes me goddamn lucky to have you, nerdiness and all.”

“Don’t forget my sexy voice,” Russell says.

“Of course not,” Ed answers. “Your voice is pure sex. You could get me off talking about climate change.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Ed. You already chased your roommate away.”

“That’s right.” Ed makes his voice as low as possible; he hopes Russell can hear his wicked smile. “It’s just you and me now.”

This wasn’t his ulterior motive—really, he just wanted to piss Ling off for taking his chips, nothing else. He’d only called Russell to begin with for some innocent homework help. Now, however, he’s got the dorm to himself, Russell’s on the phone, and he hasn’t had a good fuck in two weeks. He’s just making lemons into lemonade.

“You have an essay to write,” Russell tells him. He tries to sound stern, but his voice says loud and clear that Ed’s winning. His grin widens.

“You really think we’ll take that long? What, gonna keep me at it all night?” he asks. “Or just make me wait?”

“ _Edward_.”

That groan paints it for him: Ed can picture Russell’s face very clearly in his mind, eyes shut tight, harsh breaths coming through parted lips as a flush creeps up his neck. He imagines Russell’s fingers clenched around his phone, knuckles turning white; he imagines the other hand, maybe without his permission, inching closer to his groin. Maybe he’s hard already. The thought makes Ed flush with triumph.

“If you don’t finish that paper, it’s all on you,” Russell says roughly. “ _All_ on you. You’re not allowed to even _consider_ blaming me.”

Ed’s already on his feet, crossing the living room and tiny kitchenette in record time and entering the second of two bedrooms on either side of a short hallway. He slams the door—just to make sure Russell hears it close—toes off his socks, and begins the task of undoing his belt buckle with one hand.

“You know what I’d rather have _all on me_ —”

“Oh, very clever, Edward.”

In the background, Ed hears a chair scraping, then footsteps. Russell just stood up from his desk. While he settles onto his bed, springs creaking faintly over the phone, Ed manages to yank off his belt; he tosses it in the general direction of his laundry basket.

“Well, we can’t all be like you,” he says. “Your voice is fucking magic, Russell, I’m telling you.”

He’s opening his jeans as he says it, but he doesn’t shove a hand in just yet—no need to rush. Carefully, so he doesn’t drop the thing, Ed traps his phone between his ear and shoulder and goes to sit on the floor by his bed, leaning into the mattress frame so he can tip his head back and spread his legs in front of him. The fingers of his feeling hand dance along the elastic of his boxer shorts, almost teasing; his other hand holds his phone in place.

“So talk to me,” Ed says. “Anything you want. I’m all ears.”

“Should I tell you what I want you to do to yourself right now?”

It’s a murmur, quiet and careful. Ed’s fingers steal lower until they’re just above his pubic bone. He presses down, just a little bit, and shuts his eyes against that tiny burst of pleasure. “I’m all ears,” he repeats.

“How much are you wearing right now?” Russell asks. He keeps his voice very measured. With sex and everything else, he wants to appear perfectly in control of himself, totally unaffected by whatever’s happening—a sharp contrast to Ed, who feels everything so strongly he probably couldn’t hide it if he tried. Sometimes it’s grating, that control. Right now, it’s a challenge. Ed wants to wear at that restraint until the strings stretch and snap; he wants to get Russell panting and squirming as much as possible as _fast_ as possible. He’s really something when he can’t contain himself. The thought turns the warmth in Ed’s stomach into bubbling heat, and he sketches his fingertips over his clit—very lightly, running over the fabric of his underwear, but it still makes his breath leave him in a shaky sigh.

“Why don’t you take your clothes off before you start touching yourself?” Russell murmurs.

Ed can almost _feel_ his gaze, can almost _see_ those eyes, the blue gone black with desire. He applies a little more pressure to his clit—he lets himself rub for just a second, head dropping forward, choking on a small moan—and then, while his body aches in protest, he pulls his hand from his pants and rises to do what Russell said. His legs feel like jelly. His fingers come back damp.

“I’m wearing those jeans you like, you know,” he says, a little roughly as he puts the phone on speaker and tosses it onto his bed. Russell hums in approval.

“The dark ones? Nice and snug? Mm, Edward.” His low chuckle makes Ed shudder and squeeze his thighs together. It’s almost embarrassing, how fucking _weak_ he is for this kid. “Like it’s not hard enough keeping my hands off you when your ass _isn’t_ in tight pants. Fucking perfect.”

There’s a hitch in his voice at last, and Ed shucks his jeans down and kicks them away. His t-shirt quickly follows suit. Next comes the hard part—his binder: he talks to Russell while works at it to keep the mood going, since hearing him wrestle with it probably isn’t very sexy.

“I’ll wear them next time I see you, then.” The damn binder’s caught around his neck, but Ed manages to turn his grunt of frustration into a passable moan. “You can take ‘em off, too. Bet you’d like that.”

“I’d _love_ that,” Russell breathes. “I love undressing you, Edward. That’s a treat in and of itself. I love taking your clothes off a piece at a time, nice and slow, and you make frustrated little noises when I won’t hurry up, but that’s how you like it, isn’t it?”

Ed frees himself from his binder and throws the damn thing behind him. He cups a breast, rubbing away the soreness, and pinches the nipple between his fingers as Russell continues.

“You’ll complain and give me the evil eye, sure, but you really like being teased, I know you do. I hear it in the way it makes you moan and I feel it when you’re dripping before you even hit the sheets.”

Goddamn. God _damn._ How does he _do_ that? Did he spend puberty whispering dirty things to himself until he got them perfect, or was he just born with that fucking amazing tongue? Metaphorically _and_ literally, Ed thinks, and recalls fond memories of that tongue tracing his breasts, smoothing over his belly and hips and thighs, lapping between his legs like he’s dying of thirst—

In a single movement, Ed kicks off his boxers and they hit the opposite wall. He drops onto his bed, opening his legs and bracing his heels against the blanket; he only sits up to retrieve his phone and prop it next to his head. Even as he does this, his feeling fingers trace patterns along the insides of his thighs—so gently, so lightly, he can almost believe they’re Russell’s hands instead of his own. The loud sigh he gives is only partially for Russell’s benefit.

Russell hums—or maybe it’s a moan; the phone makes the sound too tinny to tell. “Oh, I bet you’re a sight right now,” he says softly, and laughs. That _laugh_. It’s a spike of pleasure that hitches Ed’s breath, sends shivers down his skin, and pools between his legs. He doesn’t even have to touch himself to know he’s wet, but he does anyway: he runs a fingertip along his opening, gets it slick, and then settles it against his clit, not stroking, just touching. He presses down, just a little pressure to tide him over, and chokes on a whimper.

“Nice and slow, nice and slow,” Russell murmurs, gentle and encouraging. Ed starts rubbing small, tight circles over his clit, about one every second. It’s too much and it’s not _nearly_ enough; he hisses on every inhale and in just a few moments, shoves his prosthetic arm between his teeth to quiet his cries. His blood runs hot through his body and his muscles are tense and trembling and his vision is such a blur he has to shut his eyes against the pleasure, and he’s so fucking _wet_ , his clit swollen and hard under his soaked fingers, that if he ignored Russell and started pounding like he usually does when he’s alone he’d be coming in about a minute. But Russell wants him to be patient, so he can be patient. Russell wouldn’t give him the choice, if he were here; he’d tease him with a thumb at his clit and fuck him slowly with two of his fingers, crook them _just right_ to stroke that spot inside him that makes him twist and whine and arch his back, and then chuckle at Ed’s distress before sealing his warm mouth around a nipple, flicking it with his tongue, scraping it gently with his teeth, while he carded the fingers of his free hand through Ed’s long blond hair—

“God,” Ed chokes out, “ _God_ ,” which is stupid, he’s an atheist, but Russell’s fingers and mouth and fucking _tongue_ could convert him if anything could. He wants him here. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Ed wants him here: he wants to fuck Russell’s fingers instead of his own, pin him at the shoulders with his knees and ride his tongue, roll with him between the sheets until he’s trapped under Russell’s body with his ankles hooked on his hipbones, and he can suck bruises along Russell’s neck and collar while Russell thrusts into him, desperate with his own burning, aching need to reach the same heights Ed’s seeking—

It’s all Ed can do to remind himself _slow, slow, slow_ , his body’s aching that badly for release, and if he loved Russell any less, if foresight hadn’t told him the wait will be worth it, he’d chuck the phone across the room and bring himself off already. His breath rattles in his lungs, and he moans around the arm in his mouth. Russell must hear how muffled the sound is because he protests.

“No, no, no, Edward. Edward, let me hear you,” he says, quiet and urgent. “That’s not fair, Edward, let me hear you moan for me.”

_I have neighbors_ , Ed thinks for maybe half a second, before he decides _fuck them_. He hasn’t gotten off to his boyfriend’s voice in two weeks and it’ll be at least another before he sees him again, no fewer than seven days before Ed can push Russell’s stupid hair out of his face and hold his hand and taste his smile and fuck him senseless, and who knows how long he’ll wait after that to see him again. The neighbors can turn their damn music up to drown him out for all that Ed cares. He drops his arm, rests his prosthetic hand under a breast, and gives a loud whine.

“Good, good,” Russell whispers. Over the phone, Ed hears the pull of a zipper, the rustle of fabric, and a soft hiss. “Keep going.” Another, sharper groan. “Edward, _keep going_.”

Hearing Russell _talk_ is one thing. Hearing Russell _moan_ nearly sends Ed over the edge right then and there. He picks up speed, alternating between fucking himself with a finger and rubbing at his clit, and he coughs as he approaches his peak, feels himself tense in the seconds before he reaches his climax—

And then Russell’s voice again, harsh and desperate, caught on a cry of his own: “Don’t come yet, Edward. Wait, please, just wait. Just a little longer.”

Ed wants to ignore him, his body’s _screaming_ at him to ignore him, but there’s another rustle on Russell’s end as he slaps his hand over a whimper and bites out a second “ _please_ ” and Ed concedes. His fingers hover just over his pubic bone, trembling, while he lies there and tries to catch his breath—pretty fucking difficult with Russell’s own ragged gasps in his ear. At long last, that legendary voice seems to have failed him. He chokes on little groans of pleasure, he stutters around words like _Edward_ and _fuck_ and _please_ , sounding damn near tears as that self-control he prizes so much spills like sand through his fingers.

And Ed—fucking _hell_ , he thinks in a daze. He can’t take more than a few seconds of it before his hand steals back down and resumes its furious rubbing. He moans, loud and long, and arches his back against the feeling, or maybe into it; he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know anything except the sting in his muscles, the rush of his breathing, the _pleasure_ racking his frame from head to toe, and the boy he loves whimpering his name in his ear.

Too much. It’s too much. The sensations compound and combine and explode and Ed can barely squeeze out an “ _I’m coming_ ” before he hits that peak and tumbles down it, boneless and gasping. He moans out an unintelligible string of expletives, he babbles thanks to Russell and God and a handful of other deities he doesn’t actually believe in, and he rocks against his hand as his orgasm completely wrings him out, pulsing hotly until he can barely remember his own damn name.

Finally, it wanes. Ed sinks into the mattress, squeezes his thighs together, and fumbles for a second before bringing his phone to his ear. He hears panting on the other end of the line. After a moment, Russell whines, high and needy; Ed finds a thick, hoarse voice to murmur, “That’s it, babe, there you go. Come on, come for me.”

Russell whimpers around his hand, and then—if Ed had to guess—bites down on it to hold in a yell as he reaches his own orgasm. Ed can’t be sure, because there’s a rustle and a muted _thud_ that tells him Russell dropped his phone. At least Russell’s loud enough that Ed can still faintly hear him moaning, and in the next couple of seconds there’s more fumbling as Russell brings the phone to his mouth again. “S-sorry,” he gasps. “Wasn’t using my hands, it fell off my shoulder.”

“S’okay, happens.” Ed’s voice cracks around the syllables. He wants to curl up where he’s lying, he’s so wiped out, but instead he brings his hand to his mouth, and loudly sucks his fingers clean—not for the taste, but for the whine Russell gives in response, like it’s erotic beyond words.

After a minute or two, while he and Russell both struggle to catch their breaths, Ed rolls onto his stomach. His muscles feel like rubber. “So,” he says, trying to sound casual. “I’m gonna guess that was pretty good?”

Russell huffs out a laugh. “Perceptive as always, Ed,” he answers.

Ed laughs too, just a little, resting his cheek on his folded arms. According to his phone’s screen, he and Russell have been talking for nearly two hours, and it’s done a number on his battery: 19% won’t last him more than fifteen minutes or so. He needs to clean himself up, put on some clothes (Ling won’t be back, he can forego the binder), and take another crack at that stupid paper. He can slap something together tonight and edit it tomorrow. But, right now, he can’t bring himself to do anything but lie there and listen to Russell steady his breathing; the post-coital buzz starts to settle and leaves him feeling kind of empty. Sure, the orgasm was pretty stellar, but he’s still lying in bed alone, and Russell’s still 200 miles away—which, more likely than not, isn’t going to change anytime soon. It doesn’t make for much of an afterglow.

Maybe Russell’s thinking the same thing, or maybe after being together for so long he just has this sense of what’s going through Ed’s head, long-distance or not. When he speaks, his voice is gentle. “You feeling okay?”

Ed just sighs. He’s not even sure if he means yes or no.

“What is it?”

“The usual,” he says with a frown. “I miss you. And I don’t wanna hang up.” He kicks the mattress below him for emphasis. Yeah, it’s childish, but he has to _deal_ with the general shittiness of a long-distance relationship; he doesn’t have to _like_ it. And he doesn’t. He hates it more than anything, even Coleridge.

“I’m really sorry,” Russell murmurs.

There’s a touch of guilt in his voice; Ed stops it right in its tracks. “Nuh-uh, you’re not allowed to be. It’s not your fault you live so far, you were going to school there before we even met, and you did what was best for you and your mental health, you needed to get out of that house. Don’t you go feeling bad about that because of me. We’ll work it out.”

Russell hums, still sounding pensive. Ed really wishes he could hold him. Instead, he stares at his phone screen: 10%, it says. He’s really starting to hate _it_ , too.

“What are your plans like next weekend?” Ed asks thoughtfully.

Russell clicks his tongue while he mulls it over. “Just studying, I think,” he says. “I might have to work. Not sure yet. Why?”

“Ask for the weekend off. Come down and see me,” Ed tells him.

He expects him to say no, or at least have to be talked into it: some test he’s got to cram for, or his douchebag boss is being extra shitty, or he just doesn’t have the gas money. He’s surprised when Russell just gives a little laugh.

“Well, after _that_ , I can’t really refuse, can I?”

Ed’s heart flutters—actually fucking _flutters_ , like something out of a cheap romance novel. The grin on his face probably looks twice as ridiculous as it feels. Still, he’s ecstatic. “Really? You mean it?”

“Someone has to make sure you do your homework,” Russell says loftily. Then his voice softens. “I miss you too, Ed. I don’t get to see you enough. Which is probably my own fault, but—”

“Shut up,” Ed says sternly. “Not your fault. But that’s great, Russell, really. You won’t get in trouble at work or anything though, will you?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll tell Mugear I have some exam coming up. That’ll keep him off my ass. And, given my schedule, it’s probably partly true.” Ed pictures Russell waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Gotcha.” Ed’s smile is starting to hurt his cheeks, but he doesn’t care. Next week he’ll see Russell. For now, that’ll be enough; that’ll be plenty.

He steals another glance at his phone screen, meaning to check the time, and instead gets a glimpse of his battery at 4%. _Shit._ Ed sits up and brings the phone to his ear. “Russell, babe, I’m so sorry, but my phone’s about fucking dead. And I’ve got that stupid essay to write, and you probably wanna shower and go to bed—”

“Right, right,” Russell agrees. He tries to sound casual, but Ed can hear the disappointment in his voice. It fucking kills him. _Next week_ , he reminds himself, and takes a deep, calming breath. Next week he’ll get to see him.

“Listen, you take care of yourself, okay?” Ed says. “No fucking—putting Five-Hour Energy in your coffee and trying to go at it all night. Actually get some sleep, okay?”

“I know, I know,” he answers, like he isn’t the biggest goddamn caffeine addict Ed knows, and that’s _after_ his and Fletcher’s interventions. “And you don’t overwork yourself, either. Don’t try to finish that essay tonight, do a little bit and finish the rest tomorrow. If you call me or text me or whatever, I’ll help you with it.”

“Got it.” Ed tries to delay saying goodnight, but he’s at 2%. He sighs. “Sleep well, okay?”

“You too, Ed.”

Then, just before Russell can hang up, Ed blurts out, “I love you so much, you know that, right?”

It’s definitely not the first time he’s said it, but Ed feels everything so intensely that every time might as well be the first time. His face heats, and he waits. Russell’s quiet for a second. Ed almost wonders if he hung up, or the damn phone died on him. But after a moment, Russell says, “Yes, I know. And I love you too. Goodnight, Edward.”

And it’s so warm and soft that Ed actually _melts_. Fucking hell. If he didn’t love him so much, he’d hate Russell for turning him into such a goddamn sap.

“Goodnight,” he says.

The call disconnects, and within seconds, the stupid phone cuts off on him.

For a few minutes, Ed just sits there, suddenly so lonely he doesn’t have the motivation to do anything else. He forces himself to remember he’ll see Russell next week, and talk to him in a few hours probably—and, besides, he’s got a paper due soon, and other things to take care of. There’s no choice but to move forward.

Resolved, he rescues his t-shirt from the floor, wraps the least smelly of his towels around his waist, and marches to the dorm’s tiny bathroom. Everything’s going to be okay, he thinks, and focuses his energy on hoping Ling left him some hot water.


End file.
